


To Tell the Truth

by rosa_himmelblau



Series: Truth Among the Lies [1]
Category: Wiseguy
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:33:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9834875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/rosa_himmelblau
Summary: So, Vinnie's working a case in Las Vegasand Sonny's alive.





	

Charlie Sorrell wasn't a guy who asked for favors. If you had something he wanted, he took it away from you—if he thought he could. So far he'd pretty much been right about who he could take what away from, which was how he'd gotten where he was, which was kind of how Sonny ended up going to Las Vegas.

Sonny had never liked Charlie, who acted like New Jersey was second rate, like there was something better about the degenerate gamblers in Nevada. He annoyed Sonny, but not enough to give Sonny a defensible reason to punch him in the face.

But he'd called the day before—or Leo Sartori had called, and kept Sonny waiting until Charlie finally got on the line. He had a favor to ask Sonny, it was important, could Sonny fly right out—?

"Yeah, sure," Sonny had replied, knowing Charlie would never get the sarcasm. Talking to him was worse than dealing with Pat the Cat. "I got nothin' better to do, right?"

There had been a long pause while Charlie thought about that. "Sonny. I'll make it worth your while."

The amount he offered was pretty staggering, but the thing that got Sonny on a plane heading west was, Charlie Sorrell was asking him for a favor. Who else could say that?

Leo met him at the airport. Leo had his job for the same reason Aldo would have had his, if things had worked out—he'd married the boss's sister. From what Sonny could tell, he knew how to dial a phone, and how to drive to and from the airport. Ask him about anything else, the answer was always the same: a long silence followed by, "Lemme check with Charlie." He was not what you'd call a self-starter.

Well, what else could you do with a dim-bulb brother-in-law, anyway? And the smart ones already had their own piece, they didn't need you to give them a job.

"We going to Charlie's place?" Sonny asked.

"Yeah, sure," Leo agreed. Sonny realized he should have asked if they were going to Charlie's house, or the casino, then decided he didn't really care. He'd rather see the casino anyway, even though he hated Las Vegas. It was hot, and it reminded Sonny of Disneyland, and it made him itch. And the women there were all taller than they were in Jersey, because they had longer legs. The waitresses did, anyway, the ones who worked in the casinos, and the showgirls, and the hookers. Sonny didn't know about the regular women. Not that that was a bad thing, but still, like everything else about Vegas, it kind of annoyed Sonny.

The casino was where they went, up to Charlie's office. It would have had a good view, if there had been anything worth looking at in the desert. At least Sonny didn't have to cool his heels while Charlie pretended he was that important, which was a good thing, since Sonny had decided if Charlie pulled that crap, he was walking. He didn't need Charlie Sorrell's money that bad.

They got off the elevator and Leo showed Sonny the way to Charlie's office, and things got weirder, because walking down the hall, Sonny heard Vinnie's voice.

He missed a step, which caught Leo's attention, which meant Sonny had to stare at him for a couple of seconds, and while he was doing that, he wondered if he was losing his mind. What the fuck would Terranova be doing in Las Vegas?

But Sonny knew the answer to that: what else would he be doing in Las Vegas? He was hunting Charlie Sorrell. Well, it couldn't happen to a nicer guy. If it hadn't been for the strict rules about stuff like that, Sonny almost would've come down on Vinnie's side.

"Sonny! Great to see you!" Charlie was so enthusiastic, you'd have thought they were friends or something. He was saying something else after that, but Sonny wasn't listening. He was too busy looking at Vinnie, who, except for the deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face, looked really, really—good. He looked really good. Good.

Not that Sonny was looking, or anything.

But the kid had no poker face at all, and if Charlie wasn't such a jerk, he'd have noticed how freaked Vinnie was. _Yeah, just like I noticed,_ Sonny thought sourly, but that was different. He looked at Vinnie again, suddenly wondering if it really was different. Maybe Charlie was distracted by the same thing Sonny had been. Vinnie really did look good.

Nah, no way. Look at the way Vinnie was dressed.

"You guys know each, right?" Charlie asked, handing Sonny a drink he didn't want.

"Yeah, sure. How you doin', kid?" Sonny frowned at Vinnie, wishing he'd get with the program and say something, instead of standing there, staring at Sonny as though he'd come back from the dead.

Maybe Vinnie got the message, since he suddenly came to life, giving Sonny an under-whelming smile and offering his hand. "Yeah, great, how're—how's everything at the Royal Diamond?"

Charlie stepped between Sonny and Vinnie, and, not looking at Vinnie said, "Go on downstairs with Leo. Sonny'n' me got business to take care of."

"Yeah, sure," Vinnie agreed, not exactly sounding happy. "Good to see you again, Sonny—"

"Get out," Charlie said curtly, and Vinnie and Leo went. "You want a refill?" Charlie asked, motioning to Sonny's untouched drink. Sonny looked at his glass of cheap scotch and melted ice, and handed it to Charlie. "Yeah, sure."

In a moment they were sitting, fresh drinks in hand. Charlie was bragging how great the Torch was doing, and Sonny was getting bored and trying not to think about Vinnie. "Charlie." Sonny finally interrupted. "You didn't get me here just to tell me how a casino's run. What's the deal?"

"It's Terranova," Charlie said quickly. He'd been waiting for Sonny to ask.

"What about him?" Sonny asked, but he knew. Charlie thought Vinnie might be a cop. Now where would he get an idea like that?

"Come on, Sonny, can you vouch for him, or can't you?"

Well, now there was a question. Could he vouch for Vinnie? "You're asking for his references?" Sonny asked.

"Yeah, you could call it that. C'm'on, wha'd you fire him for?"

Fire him. Sonny hadn't realized he'd fired Vinnie. "Didn't he tell you?" Sonny asked, wondered why he was trying to keep from blowing Vinnie's cover.

"Differences," he said. "And he wanted a change of scenery. C'm'on, we're old friends, you gotta tell me what the deal is with him."

 _We're old friends?_ Sonny wondered. _Since when?_ But Charlie was right, in a way: Sonny did have to tell him if he thought Vinnie was a cop, not because they were old friends, but because those were the rules.

Only trouble was, he couldn't do that. For one thing, it was part of his deal with the feds, and for another, he had no reason to think Charlie would keep his mouth shut. If Mack, or anybody else, found out that he'd had a cop on his payroll, Sonny'd be compost before he could blink.

If Charlie was suspicious of Vinnie though, Vinnie was in trouble. If Sonny didn't say something to put his mind at ease, he'd ice Vinnie just to be on the safe side.

 _So what?_

Well, maybe that could be bad for Sonny, since the murder of a fed would be in all the papers, and that could come back on Sonny. This was not a good position to be in.

Besides, if somebody was going to kill Vinnie, Sonny didn't want it to be this guy he couldn't stand. If somebody was going to kill Vinnie, it should be him. And maybe he'd do it, someday.

Sonny shrugged diffidently, and said the first thing he thought of. "The deal with him is, he's got a degree from Fordham."

"Yeah, I noticed he's got an attitude, thinks he's better'n everybody else," Charlie said, and Sonny wanted to slug him. There wasn't anything wrong with Vinnie's attitude, and if he acted like he thought he was better than Charlie Sorrell, it was because he **was** better than Charlie Sorrell. "I heard you two were close," Charlie went on, "and I couldn't figure out how you could spend so much time with the guy."

Sonny **was** going to belt him.

OK, maybe he wasn't. Instead, he said, "Doesn't sound like you think much of him."

Charlie stood up, moved restlessly around the room. "He mopes around," Charlie said. "You know? And he's on the phone all the time. Always talking to some uncle of his, back east."

Sonny knew that uncle, it was Uncle Sam, only he went by the name of Mike. He sounded like an OK guy—Sonny had talked to him one time, back when he thought he was really Vinnie's uncle. "Yeah," Sonny said, plunging in, "I met him one time."

"The uncle?" Charlie asked, surprised. "So he's a real uncle?"

"Seemed real to me," Sonny said. "What, did you think Vinnie's got an imaginary uncle?" This was crazy, what he was doing. What was going to happen when the cops showed up to arrest Charlie and Leo and everybody? Charlie wasn't going to forget about this. "Runs a little action over in Brooklyn," Sonny went on. "We went one time to the track." What the hell.

"So you never got the idea he might not be who he says he is?" Charlie persisted.

"Vinnie? What're you talking about? He never said he was anybody in particular." And then, because Charlie wasn't buying, "I had dinner at his mother's house." That was true, he had. More than once, in fact. "You think he's a cop?" Sonny asked suddenly, as though the idea had just occurred to him, and before Charlie could answer him, Sonny said, very slowly, "Charlie. Dave was alive when I hired Vinnie. And you know my brother could smell bacon from a mile off. He never said a word against Vinnie." That last bit was a lie, but what Dave had said hadn't been about Vinnie maybe being a cop.

Dave's posthumous word was enough for Charlie. He tried to give Sonny another drink, but one glass of cheap scotch was enough.

 

Sonny hadn't bothered to pack a bag—he had no intention of spending the night in this hot, miserable town. His plane didn't leave for another two hours, so he was going to get something to eat before heading to the airport.

And Terranova? Vinnie's problem was Vinnie's problem, it had nothing to do with Sonny. Besides, if anything, Sonny had helped him out, right? He'd done his part for truth, justice, and the American way. Chances were if Charlie decided to dust him, it wouldn't make the East Coast papers, so Sonny didn't have anything to worry about. He could put Vinnie out of his mind.

Which didn't explain why, when Sonny saw Vinnie alone down in the casino, he grabbed hold of his jacket sleeve and pulled, the way he always did when he wanted Vinnie to come with him.

Vinnie jumped. “Sonny—?” His face was full of trepidation, but not entirely. There was wildfire in his eyes, and something else. Sonny had figured out that there were two Vinnie Terranovas—the one who'd played handball with him, and the one who'd busted him. Right now he was both of them—he was scared, he wanted to take off running, but he was also as glad to see Sonny as Sonny was to see him.

“We gotta talk," Sonny said.

"Talk about what? What're you doing here?"

"Talk about your uncle Mike. Charlie was asking about him." Sonny tugged on his jacket sleeve again. “C'm'on. Where's your car?”

Vinnie looked like he was going to say something else, then he didn't, he just led Sonny out the front doors to a green Firebird. Sonny shoved him out of the way and took the driver's seat.

He'd been driving for about ten minutes when Vinnie said, “Where are we going? I thought you wanted to talk to me.” He didn't sound scared anymore, he sounded annoyed, and kind of happy.

Sonny didn't know where they were going, he just liked being in a car with Vinnie again, being with Vinnie again. “Charlie's gonna pop you.” Sonny didn't know why he said that. He had no real reason to think it was true, just a kind of feeling.

They were stopped at a red light, and Sonny was looking at Vinnie, who looked—the suit was cheap. Sonny wondered where he'd gotten it, what had happened to his closetful of clothes that fit him perfectly. He had his eyes closed, and he was taking long, slow, deep breaths. “What did you tell him?” Vinnie asked, and it wasn't an accusation. He just wanted to know.

The car behind them honked; the light had gone green without Sonny noticing. Sonny slammed his foot on the accelerator and zoomed through the intersection. “I told him I knew your family," Sonny said, but that didn't really mean anything. "I told him Dave said you were OK.” He needed to get Vinnie out of that ugly suit.

“Then why would he want to kill me?” Vinnie asked. Sonny knew Vinnie would get it.

“He's suspicious,” Sonny said. “He'd do it just in case. And besides that, he doesn't like you.” He couldn't figure out how anybody could not like Vinnie. Even though Sonny would still have liked to kill Vinnie, he also still really liked him. That didn't make any sense either.

“How come you didn't tell him the truth?” Vinnie asked. "Nobody would have known. And where are we going?” he asked again. "You're driving in circles."

They couldn't go back to Atlantic City. For that matter, **they** couldn't go anywhere. Sonny could go anyplace he wanted, and Vinnie could go wherever he wanted, but they couldn't go anywhere together. But they weren't going anywhere, they were just going around in circles, and it was ridiculous that Sonny was even doing this.

“I don't know,” Sonny said, which answered both questions. And then he started laughing. "I don't know!" This was both the best and the worst he'd felt since he'd gotten out of prison. He'd given the feds eighteen months of his life, and in exchange they'd gotten the names of some of their own who had his money in their pockets, and they'd gotten Vinnie's safety. And he'd never see Vinnie again, which was fine, until he saw Vinnie again.

“Sonny, you're driving around in circles,” Vinnie said again, sounding really annoyed. “You want me to drive?”

Sonny looked over and saw Vinnie was grinning. He made a quick turn into a parking lot, threw the car into park, and grabbed Vinnie by the shoulders. He was going to shove him against the passenger door, only Vinnie beat him to the punch, pinning him against the door while he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

“You know a motel close by?” Sonny asked. He really wanted to get his hands on Vinnie's skin, he really wanted to get him out of that ugly suit.

Vinnie was laughing, gasping, somehow sounding desperate and hopeless even without any words. But he was kissing, still kissing Sonny. "Do I know a motel close by?" Vinnie said when he pulled back to catch his breath. "It's Vegas, dummy, they got almost more motels than they got hookers. You think you can manage to drive to one?"

Sonny took one more taste of Vinnie's mouth, then pushed him over to his own side of the car. "I'll manage," he said, and put the car back in drive.

**

"So," Vinnie said conversationally, after he'd gotten himself untangled from Sonny, and had his cigarette lit, "you gonna dust me now?" He could still feel Sonny's hands on him, everyplace they'd touched him, and he was a little woozy with it.

Sonny took the cigarette from him, took a drag, then stubbed it out. "Yeah, sure. I thought I told you to quit smoking."

"I don't work for you anymore," Vinnie said. "You know that, right? Besides, if you're gonna dust me, what's the point?"

"Yeah, I suppose. You want me to do it here, or you got someplace else you like better?"

"Nah, here's fine. Crummy motel, crummy town, seems about right. Too bad we're not in black and white, it'd be like some film noir." He took the bent cigarette out of the ashtray and relit it. God, it felt good to be doing this: making out with Sonny until they were both sex crazy, then stopping to cool off, Vinnie smoking while Sonny bitched about it—usually in between drags off Vinnie's cigarette. Their usual weird sex-talk hadn't been about Sonny killing Vinnie before, but it felt the same. Any minute Sonny would get up, go across the room, and just look at him, like he was something on the other side of a store window, something Sonny couldn't buy or steal.

Sonny got up and went to the window, pulling the curtain back carefully so as to get a look outside without flashing the passersby. Then he let the curtain fall closed again. "How do you stand it here?"

"It's a job," Vinnie said. "We figured it was far enough away—everything would be all right." He'd almost said _I wouldn't run into you._ Sonny heard it anyway.

"Yeah." He turned around, facing Vinnie, and yeah, there was that look. Vinnie fucking loved that look.

"Anyway, I won't be here forever." Vinnie needed to change the subject. "How was it? How'd you make out?" He didn't say the word prison.

Sonny shook his head. "It was all right. Not enough windows."

"Yeah," Vinnie agreed, "I knew you'd hate that. And lemme guess—the first place you went when you got out was—"

Sonny was laughing, and then Vinnie was laughing, too, and then Sonny was back in bed with him, his mouth and hands going everywhere.

 

Sonny used to do this thing that Vinnie hated—he'd talk to Vinnie while Vinnie was trying to suck him. It was even more irritating than having a chatty dentist, since at least in the dentist's chair you weren't supposed to be at least fucking keeping the other guy's attention long enough for him to come in your mouth, for fuck's sake! And it wasn't dirty stuff he said, it was just . . . talking, and it was incredibly annoying. Vinnie had complained about it more than once, and had accused Sonny of liking a captive audience more than he liked having his dick sucked. Sonny's only response had been to laugh at him.

He still did it. Vinnie still found it annoying. He also found he'd sort of missed it. Not that he'd spent much time with guys' dicks in his mouth since he left Sonny and Jersey in his rearview mirror. He hadn't been with a guy since. But he missed Sonny's bizarre, inane rambling, punctuated with the universal sounds of a guy getting ready to come.

"Yeah, you're right," Sonny said, and then he gasped because of something Vinnie did, so Vinnie did it again, and Sonny pulled his hair, but not like he wanted Vinnie to stop. "Walked out the door, got in a cab, and went straight to Midtown—"

Vinnie was squeezing his balls, which could usually shut Sonny up for a few minutes anyway, but he was having some problems himself, since he kept wanting to laugh—he felt fucking giddy, curled up between Sonny's legs, doing this thing that he knew Sonny loved—

 _It's like building an orange—_ What? Vinnie had no idea where that idea had come from, or what it meant. Building an orange? And why was listening to Sonny ramble on about the view from the stupid Empire State Building turning him on so much? Almost nothing in his life really made sense, and when Sonny was around, that went down to next-to-nothing. Sonny skewed to the whacko.

"Don't you miss it?" Sonny asked. Vinnie didn't know if he meant the Empire State Building or the East Coast, and either way it was a goofy question, particularly considering the timing.

"No," Vinnie said, removing his mouth from Sonny's dick, which was kind of mean, but how else was Sonny ever going to learn? _What do you care if he learns, you think you'll be doing this again? I didn't think I'd be doing it **now,** and here I am. _ Sonny groaned, his hand reflexively trying to replace the sensation Vinnie had withdrawn, and Vinnie slapped it away. "Will you just shut up? This is not the time to make conversation, you moron."

Sonny sort of laughed, but he didn't sound what you would call happy. It was more like frustrated. "Get up here," he said, and Vinnie knew what he meant. He shifted around so they were in a more numerical position, and in a moment Sonny was handling him with that familiarity that was both comfortable and so exciting it made Vinnie feel like the top of his head was going to come off. Sonny didn't suck him—Sonny had never sucked him, it was a hierarchal thing, except that probably didn't apply anymore—was there a hierarchy now, or were they equals, or were they even playing in the same ballpark? The metaphors were making Vinnie's head hurt, and Sonny was making his dick feel good, so he tried to stop thinking about the metaphors and only think about his dick. And Sonny's, which he put back in his mouth.

Frank was going to kill him.

Not that he was going to tell Frank about **this,** but he had to tell Frank about Sonny coming to Las Vegas; he'd find out even if Vince didn't tell him, and then instead of just telling him what happened, Vince would have to explain why he hadn't told him about Sonny. And Frank would look at him, that _I know what you're not telling me_ look, except Vince was pretty sure Frank had no idea what Vince wasn't telling him, because if he'd known, he'd have had a heart attack. But the look still freaked Vinnie out.

Vinnie did hate it here because it was harder to account for his time here, because Charlie Sorrell really didn't like him, so there wasn't any playing hooky in the afternoons, playing handball or watching the girls go by. He had to account for every minute to Charlie and to Frank, and it was a pain in the ass. Sonny was so offended by Charlie not liking me, Vinnie thought, ridiculously pleased, then, I'm not supposed to care what Sonny thinks about anything.

But he did.

Frank hated Las Vegas as much as Sonny did, and complained about it as much, too. Maybe I should take Sonny along to my next meet, he and Frank can bond over hot weather and boring landscape. Vinnie almost laughed, which was hard to do with a guy's dick in your mouth, and he had to stop thinking these thoughts, so he threw himself into what he was doing, opening his eyes, though there wasn't much to look at. An extreme close-up of Sonny's pubic hair, and skin pale from being hidden from the sun. When you got that close, nothing was erotic; it was barely identifiable.

"It was raining," Sonny said, and he said it the way a man who'd spent a lifetime in a desert would say it, as though it was a special gift from God, just for him. "Thunder and fucking lighting, all the tourists ran like sheep—"

"Like you know what sheep run like," Vinnie said. He was going to finish this up with his hand, it was completely ridiculous, it was all ridiculous, they were having some kind of doomed, fatalistic, impossible love affair—love affair? Well, something like that—they couldn't keep their hands off each other—Sonny was talking about the fucking weather on the day he went to the fucking Empire State Building on the day he got out of prison—the prison Vinnie had put him in—and he was stroking Vinnie's dick while he was talking about it, and it was insane. All of it, especially Sonny.

"I've seen sheep," Sonny said defensively, and before Vinnie could ask, "In the movies."

"Oh, well you're practically a shepherd, then."

And Sonny, for the first and probably last time, put Vinnie's dick in his mouth. It was surprise more than anything that made Vinnie come so fast—it was like being hit by a train, only in a really good way—and Sonny choked because he really never had done this before and he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Vinnie lay there in a dreamy state of afterglow, listening while Sonny made the most disgusted sounds, and spat Vinnie's come all over his pillow.

"Wow, you're even more romantic than I remember," Vinnie said when he could talk again, and Sonny started laughing and couldn't seem to stop. He'd lost his erection when Vinnie came in his mouth, a blow-job seemed moot at this point, but Vinnie didn't feel like moving.

"You know what I ought'a do," Sonny said, and it wasn't a question, so Vinnie didn't answer. "I ought'a pop Charlie, and take over his action."

Vinnie buried his face against Sonny's thigh. "Do I even have to mention that you got no reason to think popping Charlie would even get you his action? New Jersey does not have eminent domain over Las Vegas, casino-kinship notwithstanding. And besides, what would that accomplish? You think I'm part of it, like one'a the slot machines? You take over his action and I come back to AC with you? Besides, even if I did, I'd just have to bust you again."

"You need to quit," Sonny said seriously, and when Vinnie didn't say anything, "I pay better."

"I can't work for you, Sonny, I don't like the job description."

"You wouldn't have to—" He stopped, sighed. "Yeah, you would."

"Yeah, I would. Or I'd have to be there when you did, or something. It wouldn't work. Maybe you could quit."

"Yeah, sure. And go where?"

Vinnie didn't try to answer him. "What did you tell Charlie, anyway?"

"I told you. I vouched for you, I said I knew your uncle Mike, I had dinner at your mother's house, and I told him Dave never suspected you were a cop." Then he said something Vinnie didn't quite get, but he knew what it was anyway. Dave had suspected something, and it was worse than him being a cop. Not that Sonny had told Charlie that.

"So when I bust him—"

"Shit's gonna hit the fan," Sonny agreed. "No way around it. That's another reason I should pop Charlie."

"Quit saying that," Vinnie said. "I'm still a—"

"You sure are," Sonny said, and he was getting hard again.

Sucking Sonny didn't shut him up, but it kept him talking about anything important, anyway, and besides, Vinnie owed him. He gave Sonny's dick one long lick, then put his mouth on it again.

“You ever stand on the Observation Platform in the rain?” Sonny asked, and it always cracked Vinnie up the way Sonny talked about that big, phallic building as though it was a woman he was in love with. There was something really sexy about it though, the way Sonny's words slipped out, caressing the air. “Whole world there, right in front'a you, the whole world—” Sonny gasped a little, and Vinnie moved his tongue, and Sonny gasped a little more, then he came in Vinnie's mouth. Not exactly fireworks, but Sonny seemed anything but dissatisfied. Vinnie didn't spit it out, though he was really tempted. He moved back to where they were more eye-to-eye and found that Sonny had switched pillows. Vinnie threw the sticky one on the floor, and Sonny gave him half of the other one, without Vinnie asking.

"Charlie could have a terrible accident," Sonny began, sounding way too happy for someone talking about a terrible accident.

"No, he couldn't," Vinnie objected.

"What, are you in charge of the universe now, you decide who has accidents and when?"

"No, and neither do you. Sonny, you can't— I can't know about this."

"You never told about Kiki," Sonny pointed out.

"Because that was my fault as much as yours," Vinnie said. He was sure Frank knew, but Frank couldn't prove anything, and he certainly couldn't make Vinnie tell. "I knew who you were when I told you I wanted to get Kiki."

"Mm," was all Sonny said. Then, "What happens now?" He was running his hand up and down Vinnie's thigh, from his hipbone down as far as he could reach without straining, then back up.

"I don't know." Vinnie was getting that same helpless feeling he'd used to get when he'd think about how when Sonny found out the truth, he'd hate him forever. Only now Sonny knew the truth, and if he hated him, he wasn't doing it very well. "Why'd you lie to him?"

"I didn't," Sonny said. "I met your mom, and your brother, I talked to your phony uncle— Oh, I told Charlie we'd all gone to the track together." Sonny laughed. He had that look again, that shared-secret look that always made Vinnie want to kiss him, and always made him feel like Sonny was about to kiss him.

"You told him—why?" Vinnie was laughing too, helplessly. How could he not?

Sonny shrugged. "Why not? I had to tell him something, right? Besides, whenever you were on the phone, it was either with your uncle or your bookie, so—" He shrugged again.

"Sonny, why didn't you tell him I'm a cop?"

Sonny gave a derisive half-laugh. "You mean besides he would'a popped you?"

"Is that the reason?" Vinnie asked.

"It's one reason. We need to go someplace," Sonny said, though he'd closed his eyes and was running his fingers through Vinnie's hair.

Vinnie was confused by the change in subject. "Someplace like where? We are someplace."

"Someplace to get you a better suit. What happened to all the ones I bought you?"

"I've still got 'em. Charlie didn't like them," Vinnie said. "He said they were wrong for the Torch, wrong for Vegas."

"Yeah, they're not cheap. Charlie dresses like a Shriner."

Vinnie cracked up. "I think he is a Shriner."

"See? We'll get you a new suit, you can come back to the Royal Diamond with me."

"Sonny. I'm working here. I can't go back—"

Sonny sat up abruptly, sitting on the edge of the bed, not looking at Vinnie. "You can't stay here, man, Charlie's gonna pop you. I thought you got that."

"But you said—"

"If it was OK, why would I have warned you?" Sonny asked, like he was a moron. "If it was OK, there wouldn't be anything to warn you about. Charlie's gonna pop you because he doesn't like you."

Vinnie felt his chest go tight. "Just like that?"

Sonny shrugged, still not looking at him. "Can't you tell 'em that? McPike, can't you tell him? Or your uncle?”

“Just because he doesn't like me?” Vinnie asked.

“You go on instinct,” Sonny said patiently. “I tried to tell you that. If something feels off, you don't do it. To me, you always felt right.” He started laughing at his inadvertent play on words. “Maybe Charlie's smarter'n me, or maybe—I don't know! Can't you tell McPike? Because you gotta tell somebody, and you gotta get out of here."

"And go where?" Vinnie asked, suddenly feeling as helpless as Sonny had sounded when he'd asked that question.

"We'll think of something," Sonny said, even though it wouldn't work, couldn't work, wouldn't ever, ever work.

**

Vinnie was still Vinnie, with that incredible mouth—not just because of what he'd do with it, but because of what he said with it. More than anything else about him, that's what Sonny loved, because he made Sonny feel like he was back in high school, since high school was the last time in your life you could say every smart ass remark that came into your head. Except for Vinnie, who was going to keep saying stuff until somebody got pissed off enough and shot him, which Sonny thought wasn't the worst reason to get shot.

Being a smart ass wasn't going to save him from Charlie Sorrell; it wasn't going to save either one of them. Charlie was going to dust Vinnie, then it would end up in the papers that Vinnie'd been a fed, then one fine morning, Sonny was going to wake up dead. And what could Sonny do about it, if Vinnie wouldn't listen to him?

Vinnie was asleep. He'd ordered one of those enormous, sloppy pizzas he always went for after sex, and a six pack from the package shop around the corner, and they'd eaten sitting on the floor like Indians, wearing just their underwear. Sonny could tell he'd scared Vinnie, but not enough to get him to take off. They hadn't talked about it while they ate; they talked like something they almost were: friends. Sonny asked after Vinnie's family, and got updated on his mother's health, and how Angie was doing. Vinnie asked about Theresa, and why Sonny hadn't married her yet, and Sonny told him about Joey's heart attack, and how they'd postponed until his health stabilized. Vinnie told him what it was like in Vegas (and Sonny suspected he was being generous).

“I ought'a get back,” Vinnie said, when the pizza was gone. He'd drunk his three beers, and one of Sonny's, but he wasn't drunk.

“Yeah,” Sonny agreed, because there was no point arguing with him, he didn't have anything different to say. “Me too.”

Vinnie yawned. “Well, hell, in for a penny. If Charlie's gonna yell at me for going MIA, I might as well be rested up for it. And if he's gonna kill me, I got nothing to lose.” And he heaved himself up off the floor, straightened out the covers, and crawled underneath them.

Sonny had already missed his plane, but there was always another plane. He needed to get back.

 

At the airport, Sonny bought himself a newspaper and a cup of coffee. He read the whole paper, but when he was through, he couldn't remember a word he'd read. Vinnie was walking off to the chopping block, and why? Because he was stubborn. You couldn't make him do anything unless you pounded his head on the ground first to convince him. Sonny had considered it.

There had to be something he could do. Why do anything? The risk is negligible. Vinnie gets himself knocked off, what difference does it make to me?

The answer was: a lot, even if Sonny didn't want to think about why. There had to be something he could do.

Well, there was one thing, but it was stupid. It was probably even more stupid than what he'd just spent the last few hours doing with Vinnie, since at least he'd enjoyed doing that. He wasn't going to like this at all, but it was better than Charlie Sorrell popping Vinnie. Sonny would hate that, since he was saving it for later, like when he got tired of Vinnie.

**

“Do you have any idea what a mess this is?” Frank demanded.

“There ought'a be a law that people can't start yelling at you until you're at least wide awake," Vinnie grumbled, and before Frank could yell some more, "No, Frank, why don't you tell me what a mess this is? Please, tell me what a mess this is, tell me how I've screwed up, tell me how lucky I am you saved me, tell me how pissed you are—tell me just one of the things you've been asking me if I know for the last hour!” He slumped down further in the car seat and rubbed his eyes.

“You really think this is the time to smart off to me?” Frank demanded.

“What're you, busy now? You want me to make an appointment for later? We're driving to California, Frank, all you gotta do is hold the steering wheel—”

“Shut up!” Frank roared, and for a few minutes Vince did.

“Or what? You'll push me out of the car?” He couldn't help himself.

“Don't tempt me! I cannot believe how stupid you are!”

Vinnie closed his eyes. Frank was ranting again, and unless he lost his voice, it would be a while before Vince could get a word in edgewise.

He had been sound asleep in a lumpy bed in a cheap motel when Frank broke down the door.

Well, really he made the housekeeper open the door with her key, then he slammed it open, screaming, "FBI! Don't move! Keep your hands where I can see them!" And then he slammed the door shut.

For a few minutes Vince had literally thought he was having a bad dream, one where Frank showed up in his bedroom in the middle of the night and arrested him and threw him in jail. Except he wasn't in his bedroom. And Frank started talking to him in a much softer tone of voice, telling him that he was to get dressed, they were leaving now, what was taking him so long—?

Answering "I gotta pee," got Frank yelling at him again, but since he was pretty sure Frank wasn't going to shoot him, Vince went in the bathroom and slammed the door. When he came back out, Frank had retrieved his clothes from where they were scattered on the floor, and Vince was glad he and Sonny had at least put their underwear back on. And that Sonny had left, he was really glad about that, too.

Once he was dressed, Frank handcuffed him and dragged him to the car, screaming at him the whole way about the whole country being federal jurisdiction, that there was no place Vince could hide from him.

"Just like God, huh?" Vince muttered, and was grateful that Frank didn't slam his head into the car when he pushed him in. He had the feeling it was a near thing.

Once they were out of town, Frank pulled over to the shoulder, got out, uncuffed Vince, and let him get in the front seat, probably so he could more effectively yell at him. They were on their way to an OCB office in California, Vince didn't know which one. The nearest one, probably, but Vince didn't know which one that was, either. All he knew was he had many, many miles of Frank yelling before he slept.

“Do you know what you've done?" Frank asked. "Besides blowing the case—”

”Frank, you're the one who came and dragged me out of this case! I didn't do anything!” Vince yelled back.

“That's right, you didn't do anything! You knew Charlie Sorrell was planning to kill you—”

“And how is that my fault? It is not my fault the guy didn't like me and was willing to kill me because of it!”

"And what did you do when you found that out?” Frank challenged him. “Did you call your lifeguard to pull you out?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Vince answered it anyway. "I was taking a nap!" he yelled, then wished he hadn't. It was a really lame defense.

Not that it mattered what he said, since Frank wasn't listening. “Putting your life at risk—"

"I was going to call when I got up! I didn't get a chance, because you broke down my door and fake arrested me again!"

"—having to be rescued by—by Sonny Steelgrave!”

This was Vince's favorite part, but he refused to let himself smile. It had taken him a while to piece the story together from Frank's incoherent raving, but apparently Sonny had called Uncle Mike and told him that Charlie Sorrell was going to kill Vinnie if something wasn't done. Vinnie kept trying to picture this, trying to picture Sonny in a pay phone at the airport, calling the imaginary Sailor Hardware, and saying—what? What had he said? Vinnie wanted to know so bad. He was going to have to ask Uncle Mike later, after they'd had Frank put to sleep.

“Frank, I was planning on calling Uncle Mike as soon as I got up. You know I haven't been sleeping all that great, and I wasn't in any danger right then—” Vinnie wasn't going to tell Frank that he'd just had both some pretty great sex and a really good pizza, and that he was the most relaxed he had in months, and he'd wanted to take advantage of it. And he certainly wasn't going to tell him that the last thing he wanted to do was tell Frank he had to pull out because Charlie Sorrell didn't like him. He almost asked Frank what he would have said to that, would he have just gone along with it as a reason for Vince to pull out? Or was it only the word of Sonny Steelgrave that he took as pure truth. But he was afraid Frank might run the car off the road when he went for Vince's throat. “Charlie didn't know where I was. About the only thing you can really say I did wrong was, I didn't tell Sonny what I was going to do. Are you seriously hollering at me because I'm not keeping Sonny Steelgrave properly updated? From now on should I call him before or after I talk to Uncle Mike?”

Vinnie had really hoped Frank would try to answer that, because he didn't think he had an answer. But of course he didn't; he wasn't finished yelling at him.

“And do you know what else you've done?” Frank asked. “Do you?”

Vince did, but he said no. “What else have I done, Frank?”

“You've put me in the position of having to be grateful to Sonny Steelgrave!”

Bingo. Frank had said that three times now, and he'd say it several more before they finally got where they were going, wherever that was, Vince's debriefing, followed by who-knew-what. Summary judgement followed by a firing squad, if Frank had his way.

“And not just me!” Frank went on, “You have put the entire Organized Crime Bureau—the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation—”

“The entire free world! We're all indebted to Salvatore Steelgrave! Watch in horror as the scales of justice grind to a halt.” Vinnie put in under his breath, but amazingly, Frank heard him over his own ranting.

“This is not funny, sport, this is not funny at all! I find out that a known organized crime—” Frank stumbled, apparently losing his train of thought “—criminal has the number of your Lifeguard! How does that happen?”

Vinnie shrugged. He had no idea. “Did anyone ask him?”

“I'm asking you!”

“I don't know! I didn't know Sonny knew Uncle Mike's number, and I'd never have expected him to call it even if I did know. Jeez, Frank, it's a phone number, can't you just change it?”

“Do not act as though this is a minor thing,” Frank snarled. “Sonny Steelgrave called your uncle!”

“Well, he knew Uncle Mike wasn't my real uncle. You do know that, right? Would you rather he'd called you?”

“You just be quiet,” Frank said, and he didn't yell it, which was much scarier. Vince wondered if it was the idea of a phone call from Sonny. “He told him the two of you had been shacked up in a cheap motel with a couple of hookers!”

For half a second, Vinnie was too surprised to say or do anything. Then he burst out laughing. He knew just what had happened, that Sonny had back-assed his way into revealing where Vinnie was, and why would the two of them be in a motel together? It was a good cover. Sonny was a natural. Maybe someday Vinnie would tell him that. His response would probably be as loud and unscary as Frank was being.

“This is not funny! What do you have to say for yourself?” Frank asked for the fourth or fifth time.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned? You want three Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, or I should say a whole rosary for penance, Frank? Because I will, if you want me to. You want me to go to confession, maybe make a novena? I don't own a hair shirt, but maybe you could lend me yours—"

“I just hope you've learned something from this,” Frank said, as though the subject was closed, though of course it wasn't.

Vinnie had learned several things from this, but none of them were anything he would have shared with Frank, even if Frank would have let him say anything.


End file.
